Afflicted
by LadyMBlakeney
Summary: Zombie-Apocalypse AU Bent on survival, Christine Daae has sheltered in the abandoned Paris Opera House. When circumstances send her into the cellars, she finds an unexpected ally in a world consumed by fear, suspicion, and death. Based on a Tumblr prompt by phantom-of-the-keurig
1. Chapter 1

All of Paris was at her feet.

In the growing light of the dawn, Christine pulled out her binoculars to scout the surrounding streets for signs of life. _Signs of life_... _right_… she scoffed to herself. The phrase echoed the unrelenting hope of the Girys. It had been more than three months since Christine had seen Meg and her mother, but she could still hear the warmth underscoring the steel of Madame Giry's voice.

"They cannot help what they are, any more than plague victims, Christine. For that reason, if nothing else, you should pity them. Never let your guard down, but if you do not retain compassion for their suffering, your humanity is as good as lost anyway."

_Fat lot of good that's done_, Christine responded as she crossed the rooftop, scanning the Rue Scribe, then the Rue Gluck. She moved on to check the Jacques Rouché and Auber views. She saw nothing but deserted streets this morning. A few columns of smoke, presumably from funeral pyres, rose slowly in the east. Despite her cynicism, Christine did her best to remember that the afflicted were victims, too. They were ill-robbed of their agency, their humanity, their voices. She shuddered. Compassion and survival were uneasy bedfellows.

She climbed the statue of Apollo holding his lyre aloft and gazed down the length of the Avenue de l'Opera. It was empty. Her part of the world was quiet this morning. She sighed in relief as she slid down to the roof of the Palace Garnier. It would give her time to do what she needed to do. Christine hoisted up her rucksack and slung her shotgun over her shoulder. She had to get moving; there was a busy day ahead.

Christine spent the rest of the morning going through the different stores hidden in the various levels of the opera house. They weren't really hers, but at this point they were no one else's, either. The opera house had been a stronghold for a few weeks, but the group hadn't been able to hold out against infection from within. Within days, the several hundred in the opera house were dead or afflicted themselves. So much death in the middle of such an opulent setting; it reminded Christine of a gothic horror story. Word that the Palace Garnier had fallen spread quickly through the city's survivors. The dead had been pulled from the building and burned in the hope that it might prevent the spread of infection. Whether through superstition or fear, no one else had tried to fortify the building. Christine, having no better options available while she waited for news of the Girys, had moved in. For the past two months, she had been there alone.

She had always loved the building, had hoped to perform here someday. That dream was long gone, but she still took comfort in the statues, the gilded woodwork, the painted ceilings. It helped to know there was still beauty in the world.

Rations first. Someone at one point had found- or stolen- a large cache of MREs and hadn't lived long enough to make use of them. She loaded her bag with as many as she could possibly fit. Next, she made her way to the stock of ammunition, and loaded a discarded duffel with as much as she could carry. She moved downward through the opera house, picking up medical supplies here, rolls of tie line there; she had to be prepared. Until now, she had been able to get everything she needed upstairs. Yesterday, however, she had turned on the taps over a bathroom sink only to hear the roar of empty pipes. She needed to find water. She needed to find the lake.

The darkness she had expected. The cellars, however, seemed to stretch on forever and were far more labyrinthine than she had imagined. Christine made her way slowly through the musty, winding passageways. At one point, she passed the remnants of a fountain set into the stone, but only a small trickle of water flowed from its mouth. Some time later, she passed cavernous rooms in which sat the massive furnaces once used to heat the building. She had a fleeting fancy that she was descending through long-abandoned circles of Dante's Inferno, but she shook the thought away; nothing could be more like hell than what had happened above ground.

She continued circling into the earth. The dark and the silence warped her sense of time, making it impossible to tell if she'd been walking for twenty minutes or several hours. She pressed on, afraid if she stopped to rest, she'd get turned around. If she kept heading forward, she was bound to reach the lake sooner or later. Once she'd found it, she could see if there were any faster ways in and out.

As she walked, Christine found herself alone with her thoughts, without the benefit of distraction. There was no sign of the afflicted down here, no sound but her own footsteps echoing off the stone, and nothing to see but the inky blackness crowding the steady beam of her flashlight. It was hard to believe it had been less than a year since the first outbreak. Authorities were initially uncertain if the virus had occurred naturally, or if they were dealing with a biological weapon. Christine had never learned if they ever found an answer; the infection had spread far to quickly. The virus began with flu-like symptoms, followed by a rash and swelling of the face. Eventually the inflamed skin began to tighten, dry, and slough off, giving the infected the appearance of walking corpses. The disease progressed into muscular convulsions; the pain invariably led the afflicted to scream until their vocal cords ripped. The lucky ones died. The entire cycle took five days at most. _It doesn't really matter, anyway_, she thought. _Knowing the cause won't bring anyone back_. Panic had quickly set in, and attempts at quarantine had made things worse. It hadn't taken long until the first sign of illness led to parents abandoning their children or people refusing to open their doors as they watched friends and neighbors collapsing in the street. The entire world had become one of fear, suspicion, and swift, violent death. Christine had been fortunate to find a home with Meg and Madame. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed the sorrow that threatened to spill over. She missed them. She hoped they were safe. They had to be, even if they hadn't come back. _But maybe they did come back, and you had already left_. They were still out there, Christine knew it.

She let her mind wander in this way for some time. The air was gradually growing cooler and unmistakably damper. She had to be close now. She picked up her pace, ready to be anywhere other than this endless series of stone rooms and passages. As if in response to the idea, her stomach growled loudly. She giggled, then felt the laugh die in her throat.

The corridor had opened up into a vast cavern, lit with a faint blue glow from an unseen source. Stretched out before her was the lake, calm as a sheet of glass. Finally, she could rest. She bent to fill her empty canteens, praying that the water was good, and that her day's work hadn't been a waste. As she stood, She heard a soft sound behind her. Startled, she spun round, her light falling across a cadaverous face.

In an instant, her hand went to her shotgun, only to find it caught in the strap of the canteen she had just filled. She struggled frantically to free it, and brought the gun to her shoulder, only to realize with horror that where there had been a face there was now nothing. She smelled a sickly perfume before a cloth clamped over her nose and mouth. A sense of langour quickly seeped through her, sapping her strength and soothing her panic. _If this is how I go, at least it's not painful_. As she eased from consciousness, a haunting, rich, all-too-human voice crept round the shell of her ear.

"I was wondering when you'd get here."


	2. Chapter 2

Christine's head seemed like it was stuffed with cotton, and her dry throat ached. She groggily opened her eyes; there were no lights on, but a fire crackled in a grate across from her. She was stretched out on a worn, but elegant chaise. Someone had removed her boots. Richly-colored rugs covered the floor, a plush tapestry of swirling stylized flowers and vines. A few paintings hung on the walls, but she couldn't make out the subjects in the dimness. At the far end of the room was a wall filled entirely with books, gilded letters on some catching the flicker of the firelight. There were three closed doors. The entire room looked plucked from another century. It was odd, but cosily familiar. And yet, she didn't know this room. She had no idea where she was.

She shot up in panic at the realization and-instantly regretting the sudden movement-crumpled softly back onto the lounge with a slight moan. Head in her hands, she struggled to remember. She had been in the cellars. She had found the lake, vast and still. She had seen one of _them_ in the dark and… she hadn't been fast enough. Was she dead then? Dying? No, the throb in her head ached too much for it not to be real. Where were her supplies? Her gun? She had the distinct feeling she had heard a voice, but it danced at the edge of her memory like a fading dream.

The throbbing behind her eyes was fading. She slowly eased herself up off the chaise, curiosity warring with concern as she began to settle into the strangeness of the situation. She was not dead, so someone either saved her from dying or had not wanted to kill her. Apart from her headache, she was not even hurt, as far as she could tell. She had been disarmed, and her bags were gone, but if someone meant to steal, why bring her along? Every question seemed to sprout three more. Determined to find answers, she padded over to the first door.

Behind it was a simple bedroom. A twin bed sat in the corner, made up with crisp white sheets and a colorful old patchwork quilt. A clean t-shirt and a pair of drawstring pants lay folded on top. A nightstand stood beside, and its little lamp filled the room with a soft glow. The walls were bare, and there were no windows. At the foot of the bed were her bags, and her boots hand been placed carefully beside them. Her gun was still missing. An empty wooden desk and ladderback chair sat against the wall opposite the bed. Another open door gave her a glimpse of a small bathroom. Christine, remembering her parched throat, hurried over and found a pleasant, if tiny, room with a toilet, a sink, and a shower. A cup, a toothbrush, and toothpaste sat at the edge of the sink, and a fresh towel hung over the door of the shower stall. Best of all, there was water. Running water. She filled the cup and took a long drink. She tested the shower tap and found not only was there running water, but it was hot. She hadn't had a hot shower in months.

Christine couldn't pass up such a luxury. She closed the bedroom door, and undressed, hanging her dingy, grubby clothes over the back of the desk chair. _Maybe I can wash them in the sink and let them dry by the fire_. She'd deal with that in a minute. First, she was going to indulge.

A new bar of soap and a washcloth perched on a ledge under the shower head. Christine stepped under the steady stream of water, her skin flushing pink. Under the hypnotizing warmth, she scrubbed away the dust and dirt from the cellars. It felt like she was washing away the months of solitude, the months of fear, the despair, the loss, the frustration and anger and pain. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she slid to the floor of the shower and sobbed.

She wasn't sure how long she cried, but when the water began to cool, she rose to her feet, washed the traces of sorrow off her face, and turned off the shower. _Time to face the world again_, Christine thought to herself. Though the burden seemed a little lighter than before.

The second door in the sitting room was locked.

The third opened into a cheerful kitchen. A kettle sat on the stove, and a basket of rolls sat on the counter. Helping herself to one of the smaller rolls, she snooped through cabinets revealing sacks of dried beans, jars of dried fruits, herbs and spices both familiar and exotic. Christine could hardly believe her eyes. How long had she been living on rations and scraps? She opened the fridge to find eggs, cheese, and fish. A funny little stone pantry held potatoes, onions, and root vegetables. There was so much food. How could anybody have such wealth in resources? How many people was this for? _Who lived here_?

Christine scrubbed her clothes in the sink of the little bathroom. Her mind wandered here in there, and she found herself remembering part of a fairy tale she'd read as a child:

_"Deep silence reigned everywhere, and at last, tired of roaming through empty rooms and galleries, he stopped in a room smaller than the rest, where a clear fire was burning and a couch was drawn up closely to it. Thinking that this must be prepared for someone who was expected, he sat down to wait till he should come, and very soon fell into a sweet sleep._

_When his extreme hunger wakened him after several hours, he was still alone; but a little table, on which was a good dinner, had been drawn up close to him, and, as he had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours, he lost no time in beginning his meal, hoping that he might soon have an opportunity of thanking his considerate entertainer, whoever it might be. But no one appeared, and even after another long sleep, from which he awoke completely refreshed, there was no sign of anybody, though a fresh meal of dainty cakes and fruit was prepared on the little table at his elbow. Being naturally timid, the silence began to terrify him, and he resolved to search once more through all the rooms; but it was of no use. Not even a servant was to be seen; there was no sign of life in the castle!"_

She shook her head, the idea was too absurd. This wasn't a story book. She wrung out as much water as she could from her clothes, and carried them out to the fireplace in the sitting room. Careful not to drip on any of the ornate rugs, she laid cargo pants, shirts, and socks out on the stone hearth to dry, tucking a few pieces of underwear underneath them. At least if anyone did come in, she wouldn't be embarrassed about _that_. Sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, she stared at the flickering light and drifted back off into daydreams.

"What do you think you're doing?"

She spun round, scrambling to her feet, and stood staring in shock. Before her towered a man, gaunt and well over six feet tall. The skin of his face was yellowed and taut, clinging to the harsh outlines of his skull. Instead of a nose, there was a gaping hole. And his eyes-at least, the sunken depths where his eyes should be-glinted at her dangerously. _She had heard a voice_.

"It was you!" she gasped. Then she recalled the cloying smell from the lakeshore and her dizzying headache from that morning. "You _drugged_ me!"

"And you tried to shoot me," he calmly stated. "I think I have been more than generous, considering." Christine opened her mouth to retort, then thought better of it. The man continued. "You haven't answered me. What," he pointed at her clothes scattered across the hearth, "are you doing?"

"It's… laundry. I didn't think anyone… you… would mind."

He tilted his head at her quizzically, then grabbed her wrist and dragged her through the kitchen to the little stone pantry. Shoving her in ahead of him, he flipped a switch behind the door. The light overhead blazed brightly and past the potatoes she saw a washer and dryer. She had been so blinded by the sight of fresh food, she had completely missed them.

The Voice curled around her. "I think in the future, you will find these to be far more useful than a bar of soap and a fire." Crimson-faced, Christine could not help but smile a little at her foolishness as the kitchen behind her rang with rich, dark laughter.


	3. Chapter 3

After she had thrown her clothes in the wash, Christine flicked off the pantry light and pulled the door closed behind her. The man was dressed in a dark turtleneck and jeans. He wore the same boots she had seen on the bodies of dead soldiers in the street. She shuddered at the memory. The man poured a cup of dark tea and handed it to her, silently gesturing toward the worn kitchen table. They sat in silence for some minutes, and she watched the steam rise in lazy spirals from the mug she held tightly in her hands.

She was in the house of a stranger, doing laundry and having tea. A stranger who had drugged her. Who had dropped her rather unceremoniously in this odd house, and seemed to expect her to make herself at home. She should be terrified.

And yet, Christine thought, as she took a sip, I'm not. I'm more relaxed than I have been in ages. Suspicion hit her suddenly, and her eyes narrowed at her tea and then at her host, who was watching her keenly.

"I assure you, the tea is fine," he said quietly. "But," he continued, as her cheeks colored, "that healthy level of skepticism is probably why you've managed to survive this long." He looked at her, the sunken, shadowed eyes holding her attention, as she occasionally caught a flash of gold. The eyes of a cat in the dark. "You're slight, but you seem strong enough. I hope you possess a modicum of intelligence, or your stay is going to be trying for both of us, though I do have hope on that front."

"Excuse me, but what stay?" Christine's anger had built as he spoke. "You can't keep me here!"

"I'm afraid that, at the moment, you have nowhere else to go"

"Don't be ridiculous! There's more than enough space in the Opera House. I'll stay out of your way…." she trailed off. "Where are we, anyway?"

"We're five levels below the Opera, by the lake."

That made sense. After all, he had brought both her and her bags; she had assumed the odd house wasn't far from where she was the night before. She was silent awhile.

"Why do you say I have nowhere else to go?"

"Because about three hours after you showed up, the building was overrun. It would be suicide to go up there," the Voice turned steely, " and I can't take the risk of you alerting them to the entrances of the cellars now that they're sealed."

"Sealed?" An icy tendril of fear began creeping down the back of her neck and winding itself round her heart. If the building had in fact attracted the afflicted, sealing the entrances made sense. But she had only his word. "You said it was overrun. How do you know?"

"I saw it."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Why, indeed?" The edge had returned to his voice, though his face seemed impassive. "I have only brought you into my home, given you space and privacy." He rose suddenly, starling Christine, and began pacing back and forth in the kitchen, muttering. "Perhaps she would prefer to be up there, fighting off a horde of senseless monsters instead of safe here alone with one who can think and speak…"

Christine rose warily from her chair. "You did take me in, and I haven't thanked you for it, which is rude of me. I apologize. I think you will allow that a 'healthy level of skepticism' is necessary when being asked to take the word of a stranger, no matter how kind their actions may appear." She approached the man carefully, suddenly much more aware of how much taller than her he was, how broad his shoulders were. He seemed to her like a spring too tightly wound, and that alone made him dangerous and unpredictable. She had a suspicion he was dangerous, no matter the circumstances, but she'd deal with that later. She softly rested a hand on his forearm, as he paced, and he stilled. "Thank you for not leaving me out in the dark."

He turned to her, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then he patted her hand. Even as cold as the cellars were, Christine was surprised at the coolness of his touch. Then he spoke, almost to himself.

"Christine is a clever girl. She will not be unpleasant company."

Her eyes widened. He realized his mistake, and pinched the ridge of bone between his eyes, as if to ward off a headache. "Come. It seems you are to have an explanation."

He turned on his heel and abruptly left the kitchen, leaving Christine open-mouthed for a second before she scurried after him. When she reached the sitting room, the second door was open. The room beyond was dark, but a bluish glow came from around a corner. Apprehensive and uncertain, she hesitated. I have no idea how to get out of this place, she thought. But he could murder me in the light just as easily as in the dark. She took a steadying breath, and followed.

When she turned the corner, she gasped. Before her was the Opera House. The man stood silhouetted by dozens of screens. She could see the grand staircase, the stage, some of her supplies stores. It was as if she had eyes on every floor. She walked up and stood beside him. He had been telling the truth. The afflicted were everywhere. If she had stayed, she wouldn't have had a chance. She looked at him in amazement. His gaze stayed on the screens before them. He flicked a switch. The sounds of hundreds of beings shuffling through the building above them filled the space.

"You sometimes talk to yourself."

"I do. It helps me think sometimes."

He nodded. "Erik did not mean to be… intrusive. He only checked from time to time to see if you were still there."

How long has he been down here alone? Christine had been alone, true, but she had been bolstered by the hope that she wouldn't be that way forever. It was temporary. She decided this was perhaps a conversation for another time.

"I think I understand. It's nice to meet you, Erik."

They stood together and silently watched the masses of damaged humanity flowing through the rooms she had once called home.


	4. Chapter 4

"Let me go with you."

"No."

"I can help!"

"No." Erik stood at the kitchen table, packing a small bag for a trip to the surface.

"Erik, I'm not a child. I want to be useful. Two of us could get this done easily, and-"

"I said no."

"But-"

"_Christine_!" He rounded on her, his sunken eyes narrowing in irritation. "This is not up for debate." He turned back to his preparations.

Her hands went to her hips. "It's been over a week, Erik."

"And as you can clearly see, the Opera House and the surrounding areas are still crawling with them."

"I can protect myself."

"Oh, of course, using that using that ridiculous shotgun! You may as well serve us up on a platter!"

"I'll have you know I am very good with my shotgun. Sorry I don't blend in as well as you, but I did ok for myself up there!"

His shoulders tensed, and Christine's eyes widened as she realized what she had said. She held her breath in the silence.

"_Poor Christine_," his tone was deadly and low as he mocked her. "Poor little girl to spend a week-a week!-down in the dark!" He turned and began stalking toward her, his eyes blazing with fury. "How terrible to be trapped in the cellars because she cannot _blend in_ with the world outside. You think you could hold your own up there when it is only by the sheerest luck you are alive at all. Sweet, charming _naive_ little Christine with her pretty face and her routine of checking the roof every morning. Making her rounds through all the caches of food and ammunition like a squirrel checking her stores of nuts. You were more like a child playing in a fort than a woman bent on survival."

Christine didn't even realize she'd been backing up until she felt the front of the kitchen sink pressing into the small of her back. Her cheeks flared with embarrassment and anger at his derision. Erik towered over her, his scorn palpable as he bent down to look her in the eye.

"And you forget, my dear, I've seen how _very good_ you are with your gun." He leaned in closer until she felt the insidious whisper in her ear, "I can't say I'm impressed."

In the blink of an eye, he was gone, the door to the lakeshore slamming behind him.

* * *

Christine threw the book down in frustration. She'd been staring at the same page for ten minutes without absorbing anything. He had no right to say such cruel things, to mock her for her efforts to stay alive. _You started it_, a little voice needled her. Guilt and shame at her own flippant comment sat heavily in her chest. Until today, she and Erik had gotten on reasonably well. He had shown her nothing but kindness._Sorry I don't blend in as well as you_. What had possessed her to say such a casually cruel thing? While they had not talked about it, it was clear he had been in this odd underground house long before the outbreak. _Poor little girl to spend a week-a week!-down in the dark!_ How many years had he spent in the cellars? Had he been afraid to go out in public? Or unable? How many people before her had been just as dismissive, just as cruel?

Dwelling on the unfairness of it would get her nowhere. She needed to get out for a bit and get moving.

* * *

After three days cooped up in the house, Erik had given in to her cabin fever. She had promised not to venture in the upper levels, or disturb the sealed entrances, and to always take a light with her into the corridors. In return, he'd shown her the trick of the door to the lake, which blended right in with the wall of the living room. He'd shown her where he'd set traps and how to avoid them and how to find her bearings if she got turned around in the warren of tunnels. In truth, Christine rarely ventured out into the tunnels on her own. The darkness there was too close, too overwhelming.

The lake was another story. The vague blue glow that filtered down was bright enough that it reminded Christine of clear winter moonlight. Christine walked to the water's edge with a camping lantern she'd taken from the house. She had no bathing suit, but the running shorts and old t-shirt she'd pulled on would be fine. Somehow, she didn't imagine Erik would appreciate her skinny-dipping in his lake. The thought made her smile a little. Well, she wouldn't worry about that. He'd be gone for hours yet. She eased herself into the water. It wasn't freezing, but it was cold enough to shock.

She swam until her lungs burned and she was too tired to feel feelings anymore.

* * *

She stood stirring a pot of heavily spiced vegetable stew. Over the past week, she had learned that, despite his rail-thin appearance, Erik enjoyed food, provided it was seasoned well enough that he could taste it. It was a gesture of apology; Christine only hoped it would be received as such.

Erik's comments about her gun had rankled, but the longer she thought about it, the more they seemed to ring true. It was too loud, and attracted too much attention. She knew Erik had some sort of garrote; she had seen the massive box of piano wires he had scavenged to make them. She was sure there had been at least one book of weapons on the shelves. Surely one of them would give her some sort of idea of how to construct such a thing.

* * *

She was too busy swearing to hear the front door open. Her hands were sliced and bloody, and the scrap of piano wire she was using was nowhere near to the tidy little noose she had seen him slip into his pocket before his trips out. When he stepped into in the kitchen doorway, she briefly hoped for a reconciliation, but he took one look at her and turned around. Her heart sank, and she turned back to her length of bloody wire, determined to make something of it.

As she tried again to coax the wire into a fiddly little knot, he reappeared. Sitting next to her, her took her wounded hands ad wrapped them in a hot, damp towel. As she tended her cuts, he slipped on a pair of cotton gloves, set a length of wire and a pair of needle nose pliers on the table.

"Erik knows… it is not easy to be shut away like this." He began working with the wire, pausing to make sure she caught the intricacies of the knots. "You may not have been… experienced… with survival, but you have survived nonetheless. That is impressive."

Christine watched carefully as he picked up the pliers and began weaving the wire over and around itself. They remained silent a while as he worked. "I was wrong to say what I did about you blending in. I'm sorry."

"Christine was not wrong. Erik is aware of his face. It is precisely why Erik goes up alone."

"Well," she continued, "I shouldn't have said it that way. Forgive me?"

Erik looked at her, his head tilted slightly, and slid the neat little coil of wire over to her. "I will find you some gloves. Tomorrow, you will learn to use the Punjab lasso."


	5. Chapter 5

I FORCED MY BRAIN TO DO THE THING SO HERE IS A NEW CHAPTER.

Seriously though, I had a bit of a slump, so let's pick this back up!

* * *

Over the next several weeks, they fell into a sort of routine. Christine started her mornings with a swim, and then buried herself in books until lunch. There was no denying Erik had a collection that was both eclectic and educational. Christine spent hours studying some of the scientific tomes that dotted his shelves. The medical texts were of limited use beyond improving her knowledge of anatomy and first aid. Astronomy seemed pointless when she was five floors below ground. Chemistry might be useful, but she had never been much good at the math that underlay the various principles and formulae. Much to her surprise, the subject in which she found most interest was botany. She fancied the plants on the pages had little personalities of their own, their idiosyncrasies and properties aligning into characters. Or maybe she was going a little stir crazy.

There were books on history and geography, and a particularly worn and dog-eared atlas with indecipherable notes scribbled in the margins. _Did Erik travel before he came here? Where is he from?_ At some point, she'd ask him. She burned through the novels and volumes of poetry. There were dozens more books on the shelves, but in Arabic, Italian, and what looked to be Russian, and therefore beyond her grasp at the moment.

What Erik did during the mornings, she was uncertain. Undoubtedly he watched the Opera House, monitoring their mindless, voiceless captors to see if there was any hint of relief. The building seemed to have become a hive, with the afflicted moving in and out and over and through constantly. She knew he wrote; he would often emerge with ink-stains on his hands. What he wrote, or why, she did not know. Another question to ask.

She found the answer to one query often led to two more popping up. Erik was not always receptive to her curiosity, but occasionally he would leap on a topic and expand on it at length. When he'd found her baffled and frustrated with one of his physics books, he'd constructed a disturbingly functional Rube-Goldbergesque model of a trap out of kitchen utensils, explaining different principals to her as he went along. He had also shown her how to apply some of the same principles to force doors and pick locks, giving her another occupation to while away the long hours (though he had requested that she confine her attempts to her own bedroom door and some spare locks he had given her).

He'd also been quite pleased with her interest in botany, and would often call her over to show her some mixture or other from a never-ending collection of jars in the kitchen cupboards. He would tell her the plants involved, and quiz her as to the possible use of such a concoction. She had found the challenge interesting, and had come to be quite proficient, even suggesting modifications to some. At some point, he had brought out an elegant locked wooden case that clinked slightly as if full of bottles. He had not mentioned it, merely raising his eyebrows when she asked. The case had sat locked on the kitchen counter for the better part of a month.

One morning, she had found a collection of old, well-kept sheet music, including opera scores, song cycles, art songs, and an extensive stash of instrumental works. Her training had ended abruptly with the death of her father and the onset of the contagion. It had been scarcely a year, but it felt like an entirely different life belonging to another person. The sight of the notes dancing across the staves filled her with a bittersweet longing, and she pored over the pages for hours, finding songs and arias she remembered from the conservatory, singing bits and pieces as she recalled them. She was in the midst of a Schubert lieder when she had looked up to see Erik standing in the doorway. He was watching her with such peculiar intensity, that she had blushingly stammered an apology, quickly tidied up the stacks, and bolted into the kitchen to put on some tea. From then on, she only pulled out the music when he was out of the house.

In the afternoons, he would vanish again, leaving Christine alone with her thoughts. But when he returned, it was time for her lesson. Every evening, she followed him into the out of the house, and into the tunnels, where he had set up a scarecrow: a rudimentary target for her to snare.

Erik was a meticulous teacher. Christine's initial frustration with the Punjab lasso did not lessen immediately. The weapon was finicky and difficult to manage, and as her irritation mounted, Erik quietly corrected her posture, her breathing, her stance, the flick of her wrist. Finally, after days of practice, she was able to lasso the target he'd set up. And then she did it again. He adjusted her breathing, her tension on the wire, her focus. He increased to difficulty as she improved, until she could catch a moving target.

In the third week he began adding self-defense techniques, then basic hand-to-hand combat. Her lesson was now an hour of target practice followed by as much sparring as her body could stand. Christine had initially been reluctant to fight with him; for all his height and dangerous appearance, he seemed to her to be brittle.

"But what if I hurt you?"

"I'm older than you, Christine, but I assure you, I am not a doddering old man who is a mere slip away from a broken hip. Just attack me as best you can and attempt to disarm me."

She was left gasping for breath after he swept her legs out from under her, knocking her flat on her back.

Truth be told, she had come to enjoy it. She got the impression Erik did, too, though he never gave any sign other than an occasional curt nod of appreciation after she had successfully performed an attack or blocked one of his own. Or at least that's what she told herself in the ache-relieving warmth of the shower as she soothed the newest addition to her collection of bruises.

What she had truly begun to look forward to was their evenings. Erik had produced a chess board one night a few weeks earlier, and while they played, he would ask her about what she had studied during the day. Christine relished the opportunity to talk about new and different concepts, to ask for his interpretations or to argue for hers. She suspected he had quickly learned how to provoke her just enough to divert her attention from the game in front of them; he had yet to lose a match, and their fiercest, most frustrating debates had "coincidentally" coincided with some of her strongest opening gambits. However, their conversations were too pleasant and invigorating for her to mind _too _much.

She couldn't say why the intensity of his gaze sometimes made her trip over her words, or why her mind seemed hazy when he used a particular tone of voice while trying to persuade her to his side during an argument. And if her cheeks flushed more than usual, surely it was simply her proximity to the fire.


	6. Chapter 6

Christine had once again lost the nightly game of chess and she and Erik had settled into a companionable silence. He had pulled out a bottle of sweet, honey-colored wine earlier in the evening, and Christine slowly sipped from her glass as she pored over a biography of Jenny Lind. After a time, she glanced up from her book and found herself the object of Erik's intense scrutiny.

She knew his eyes glowed somehow—she had seen them in the tunnels many times—but in the flicker of the fire they seemed lit from within. He tilted his head slightly, considering her. The seconds ticked by, and Christine held her breath, unsure of what was coming. In the flicker of an eyelid, Erik had sprung from his seat and redirected his gaze to the wall of shelves. He quickly selected several volumes and then disappeared into his room.

Christine, startled, remained seated. _What was that?_ She thought she had grown accustomed to Erik's strangeness, but this was new. _Did I upset him?_ He hadn't shut her out, and soft light spilled from the open doorway. She hadn't seen his room; he had kept it dark on the rare occasions he showed her the camera feed. Was she meant to go after him?

As if in answer, Erik poked his head out into the living room. "Well?'

Christine followed.

Erik's room was double the size of her own and somehow both sparser and more cluttered than hers. Where her small room had a bit of charm and warmth with its patchwork quilt and stack of books on the nightstand, Erik's could only be described as utilitarian. The narrow bed was covered with a rough wool blanket. No rugs softened the floor. There was a desk, but it seemed buried in papers and empty tea-stained the pages littering the desk and the floor around it she saw scraps of writing, doodles, and...were those blueprints? But nestled in the corner opposite the bed was a piano.

Erik sat at the keyboard of a baby grand. On the wall behind him were a variety of instruments both familiar and strange. He was looking at a book Christine recognized: the collection of Schubert she'd been singing through.

"Who did you study with?" He asked without looking up.

"What?"

"I assume you were at the Conservatoire, before. Who was your voice teacher?"

"Oh! Um.. Reyer. I studied with Reyer."

Erik closed the score and nodded. "Reyer managed to produce reliable, technically proficient singers. Not a spark of creativity among them, but consistent." Before Christine could bristle at the implication, he continued. "And where were you signed?"

"Sorry?"

He sighed impatiently. "After graduation, where did you go? The Conservatoire had an excellent placement program. Where did you go?"

"I didn't."

"What do you mean you didn't?" Impatience began to give way to irritation. "You would have been given a place in any of the major opera choruses. How could you spend the time and effort studying and then waste—"

"I didn't graduate!"

Erik stopped short.

"I was in my final year. My dad—" her voice cracked. Christine swallowed and continued. "My dad was at Gare du Nord, he was one of the first."

Erik's expression softened. "He's not…"

"No. He only lasted three days. After his funeral, I was asked not to return to the school." She laughed bitterly. "They said it was just until the danger of contagion had passed." Christine barely registered the tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks. "He was engaged for a series with the Munich symphony. He came to surprise me. He shouldn't even have been here—" She stopped abruptly, remembering where she was, and went to wipe her tear-stained face with her sleeve when Erik handed her a spotless white handkerchief. She looked at him questioningly. He gestured to his lack of a nose.

"I live in damp catacombs and underground tunnels. I'd be a fool not to have a copious supply." Adopting a flippant tone, he quoted, "_Take notice, boobies all, Who find my visage's center ornament a thing to jest at_—_that it is my wont_—_an if the jester's noble_—_ere we part to let him taste my steel, and not my boot!_"

She laughed a little at that.

His golden eyes glinted with humor. "Yes, Mademoiselle Daae, Cyrano and I make quite the matched pair, do we not? A comical salt and pepper set to amuse God as he dines! I admit, Bertrand's play would make an excellent opera. Perhaps I'll take up the task as a side project…"

"You compose?" Christine asked, curiosity slipping through the sadness.

"I do, not that there are any audiences left to hear me."

"I wish I could hear it."

"And why shouldn't you be able to?"

"Surely you don't play anymore? Wouldn't the sound attract attention? I mean—"

"Christine, even if we weren't five floors underground, I could play, as I do every morning, and most nights. The room is soundproof."

"Oh." Christine began to smile in earnest at the thought of hearing live music again.

"But you are not ready for my music," he said lightly. Christine thought he might still be teasing, but wasn't certain. "It's too much. You'd lose all your pretty colors, and then where would you be?" Erik's previous energy resurfaced, and he swiftly crossed the room to close the door. "Your voice is good. With proper training, it could be unrivalled. The epidemic will not last forever, and—providing you can stay alive— you will be able to command any role on any stage in the world." He circled Christine slowly as he wound his voice around her, Mephistopheles whispering in the ear of Faust. "If you haven't sung with any professional companies, you haven't had a chance to form too many bad habits. Reyer can make a technically proficient musical machine, but you are far too much for a mere machine. There is the spark of life in your voice; we must coax that spark into a searing flame. But we must start with what you know. Let's sing some music from the opera, Christine."

Several hours later, Christine lay in bed, flushed with excitement. How long had it been since she had been able to lose herself in music? To luxuriate in it endless intricacies and variations? For a few brief hours, she had left everything behind; the outbreak, school, her father, everything faded into the background in the blazing light of Mozart, Gounod, Schubert, and Mahler. And Erik… She had never seen him like that. True, while they worked he was just as caustic and demanding as in her training with the lasso. Unlike the lessons, however, he had shown humor, kindness, and compassion. When he played, the music was nearly tangible, flowing throughout the room like an invisible river.

The flush deepened as she recalled his long fingers dancing over the piano keys as he accompanied her. Later, at her request, his graceful hands caressed a tune from the strings of a violin. Her heart beat faster at the memory of his words—no, not his words, his tone. His visions of her future on the stage were golden and glittering, but they had been edged with something darker, more seductive. Passion was a given, considering how he played.

_Desire_? It was unmistakable. And yet… Christine shook her head as she turned over in bed. _How full of myself could I be? _She was reading into things, she had to be. They had been spending a lot of time together, out of necessity. He was intense and used to solitude, even before everything was turned upside down. He was getting used to her companionship, but it didn't follow that he was desired her. _He called me pretty, though. Sort of. _"Sweet, charming naive little Christine with her pretty face and her routine of checking the roof every morning," he had said. Hardly an attempt at seduction.

_What __**would**_ _his attempt at seduction look like? _She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the warmth that spread through her as her imagination feverishly attempted to supply an answer.


	7. Chapter 7

Hello, dear readers!

I didn't abandon this, I just wasn't sure if I should go on writing a story about an epidemic-type apocalypse in the middle of an actual global pandemic.. I intended to pause and pick it up again later. However, considering no one knows when later will be, I've missed writing, and I figure if anyone wants to hold off on reading, they will, and that's totally fine. I hope you're all safe and well. This is a bit shorter of a chapter, but I'm hoping to have another up _very very soon. _

* * *

When Christine emerged from her room the next morning, Erik had already gone out. He had, however, left the door of his room open and the light on, a small nod of acceptance granting her access to his piano. She once again passed the scattered drawings and architectural sketches, refusing to give into her curiosity. And she was curious, terribly so. Maybe this evening, she could ask Erik about them.

She worked for a while on some of the pieces they'd played with the night before, plunking out some of the trickier passages on the piano as she rehearsed. She'd missed this more than she'd realized. Music had quickly become an unaffordable luxury; to have it given back to her made her heart ache with longing.

The day passed in much the same way as many before it. Christine sang, read, swam, and read some more. When her stomach began growling in earnest, she realized it was far later than Erik's usual return. She shrugged off her unease—the outside world was too unpredictable to get herself worked up about a change in schedule—and went to make dinner.

Two hours later, a bowl of soup sat on the table in front of her, half-eaten and ice cold. Christine tried to suppress the rise of panic in her chest. Erik was strong and clever. And deadly, she thought. Even if he ran into difficulty, he'd make it back. Just like Meg made it back? Christine pushed her chair from the table, and went to the living room to pull out the chessboard. Erik would be back. She would not let fear gain a foothold now.

Christine woke hours later to the sound of breaking glass and muted swearing.

She was still on the couch, but the fire had died down to embers leaving her in near blackness. Stretching the kinks out of her back, she rose and moved toward the kitchen, where the muttering continued. Yawning, she stepped into the golden glow of the kitchen and froze in her tracks.

"Don't come any closer."

Erik was on his hands and knees amid the shattered remains of a glass bottle, gathering the shards in one shaking, bloodied hand. Christine quickly realized the bottle couldn't have caused him that much damage. Blood seeped through Erik's shirt, dripping down his arm to his hand and creating a small pool beneath him. Christine stepped forward, alarmed.

"I said don't come closer, stupid girl!"

Shocked, she took one look at his greying face, and disappeared from the doorway. She reappeared moments later, her untied boots hastily pulled on her bare feet. "Erik, leave the glass."

"Someone could cut themselves." He shifted to reach a piece under the table, smearing blood as he went.

"Erik," Christine spoke softly as she approached him. "Erik, I'll sweep up the glass just a second. Why don't you come sit down?" Gently, she laid her hand on his arm, keeping her touch light when he flinched. Erik looked at her warily. He seemed to Christine to be almost feral; his pupils were dilated and he seemed distracted, far from the sharp, acerbic individual she was used to. She coaxed him off the floor and into a chair. He dropped his precious handful of glass in a heap on the kitchen table.

"What happened?" Christine began washing her hands, making the water as hot as she could stand.

"I was attacked."

Christine remained silent as she pulled alcohol and clean dish towels from their places.

"Not by… them. Just people."

She nodded, relief flowing through her. "Take off your shirt."

Erik stared at her, opening his mouth as if to speak, then closing it again.

"Erik, you're bleeding. A lot. I need to see what's wrong. Take off your shirt."

"I was stabbed."

"Erik!"

"Now you know, and you don't need to see."

Christine crossed her arms and stood in front of him. Even sitting down, he was practically eye-to-eye with her. "Erik."

"I'm fine! Stop coddling."

She noticed the wooden box on the counter was open. Inside were dozens of small bottles. It was a medical kit, old-fashioned, but extremely well-stocked and maintained. "Erik, what was in the bottle that broke?"

He sighed. Exasperated, Christine sorted through the pieces on the table until she found the label. Lidocaine.

"You need stitches, and you know it. You're also disoriented, and likely have a concussion. Judging by where the blood is, you'd have a hard time sewing yourself up even in the best circumstances. Erik, please let me help you."

For a brief moment, it seemed like he folded in on himself. Then his back straightens and he carefully pulled off his black shirt. Christine's eyes widened. It wasn't just the angry red gash on his side, scars were scattered across his pale skin. She took a steadying breath and met his eyes.

"Have you ever stitched a wound before?"

She shook her head. "I can sew, though. I know it's not the same-"

"It's something."

Carefully, Christine tended to his wound as he guided her. She tried to work as quickly and deftly as she could, but even without the anesthetic, the periodic tightening of his fist was the only hint of pain he showed.

After she finished sweeping and mopping the kitchen floor, she went into the living room to find Erik stretched out on the couch, book in hand.

"You should be resting, Erik." She had insisted he rest there where she could keep an eye on him for the remainder of the night. He raised a sardonic eyebrow at her as she curled up in the armchair.

"I don't sleep much, and this is as restful as anything. You're going to be sore in the morning."

Christine blushed, thinking how different those words would have sounded to her only the night before. "That's future Christine's problem. Present Christine just needs to make sure her patient makes it through the night."

Erik laughed, albeit with a hint of bitterness. "Believe me, my dear, I've had far worse than a knock on the head and a shallow knife wound."

She watched him as he gazed into the now-crackling fire.

"Tell me?"

He was quiet for so long, she began to think he hadn't heard her.

And then he began.


	8. Chapter 8

So I meant to update a few days after my last chapter and suddenly it's the end of August. Quarantine is a hell of a drug. Hi everyone! I love you, I'm back, I hope you're okay! I'm sorry this took so long, but I'm happy to be writing again. This chapter was unbelievably hard to get on paper, but I hope it works okay.

* * *

Christine, shocked that he had responded, hung on his every word. Although her mind was brimming with questions, she was afraid if she spoke, he would stop, and she was too curious, too greedy for information to want him to stop. By the time he settled into a rhythm, she was captivated.

Erik painted a quaint little village in the French countryside, a rose-covered cottage at the edge of town. A young man, running towards the future, eager to experience the world, joining up with a traveling circus, where he learned magic and ventriloquism. An hour later, Christine's imagination was overflowing with images of colorful caravans traveling through eastern Europe, the history of Florentine architecture, and the lush mountains and glassy lakes of the Mazanderan province of Iran. She saw each place unfold before her in the living room, Erik's voice flowing underneath the pictures like a river. She leaned her chin on her hand dreamily. Each place is more vivid and beautiful than the last. It sounds just like a fairy tale…

She sat bolt upright. Erik's voice stopped, and the beautiful pictures vanished from her mind like smoke.

"That's not what happened at all! You made it up, didn't you?"

"Which part, Christine?" Erik's eyes glinted at her in the firelight.

Christine looked at him, considering. His descriptions were incredibly detailed; had he really travelled and studied in all those places? She could certainly believe it. She had seen his magic tricks, as well as the piles of drawings in his room. But something seemed off. She thought back to what had started the conversation. I've had far worse than a knock on the head and a shallow knife wound. That's what he had said. Where was that in his rosy story?

"I think," she said, meeting his gaze, "that you have left some things out. I think what you have told me is not false, but that somehow you have conveniently left out what is true."

He snorted. "Perhaps I should remove the philosophy books from my shelves."

"You said you'd had worse than the gash I stitched up."

"Ah," his light tone belied a dangerous undercurrent, "so Christine desires not wonder, but violence, is that it? You would hear of the ugliness of the world, rather than its beauty? How very bloodthirsty of you, my dear."

Christine sighed, refusing to let him distract or bait her. "I only wish to hear about you. Where did you learn to fight?"

"Do you think," Erik said, gesturing to his face, "that skill has been anything but a lifelong necessity? While I was not always big enough or strong enough for it to be effective, it is not something I recall ever being without. Later experiences simply… honed my ability."

Christine turned and watched the embers in the fireplace glow and shimmer. After a few moments, she softly asked, "Was any of it real?"

"The places were. The colors, the sights, the sounds… There is always something to be found and appreciated."

"But it must have been so horrible-"

"The world has plenty of horrors, Christine. That does not mean there are no wonders."

Again they fell into their own thoughts for a time, the silence punctuated by the occasional crackle from the hearth.

"So did you really live in Iran?"

"I did, for a few years."

"What did you do there?"

"Oh, some architecture, some entertainment. I dabbled in security now and then."

"Security?"

"After a fashion."

An odd thought struck her. "The way you say that makes it sound as if you were a jewel thief or something."

Erik laughed aloud before hissing in discomfort. He waved away her concerns, his expression becoming one of wicked mischief. "Perhaps. Would it surprise you to know I was acquainted with the chief of police there?"

Christine's face brightened. Erik had never mentioned any friends before. When she thought about it, Erik had barely mentioned any people before. "What was he like?"

"A particularly irritating fellow, addicted to coffee, a little too clever.. Always popping up where he wasn't wanted, prodding and nagging like an old hen, wondering where I was headed, or where I had been."

Now it was her turn to laugh. "It seems like he was trying to keep you out of trouble."

"Hm. Trying."

"Unsuccessfully, I take it?"

"Oh, it rather depended on the situation," Erik replied. "I can be quite persistent."

"Some might say stubborn."

He put a hand to his chest in mock outrage. "Surely no one I know would dare say such a thing."

Christine giggled. "Certainly not I. He sounds like a pretty good friend."

"Yes, I suppose considering the lack of options, Nadir is-" Erik's demeanor changed abruptly, his expression shuttered. "It is very late, Christine. You should go to bed."

Christine, jolted by the unexpected change, protested. "If you need something, I should be here."

"Very well, if you must." His voice took on a strange golden tone. "Though you would sleep better in your own room, wouldn't you? With your soft pillow and cool sheets?"

Christine, suddenly aware of how drowsy she was, rose from the armchair.

"That's right, Christine. Think of how much more comfortable it will be." Erik watched, as she moved to the doorway of her room, hesitating for a moment, then proceeding into the darkness beyond. "After all, my doctor must be well-rested, mustn't she?"

One eyebrow raised in surprise when she re-emerged moments later carrying a pillow and the quilt off her bed.

"You're not the only one who's stubborn," she said, curling herself up once again in the armchair.

His deep chuckle resonated through her, filling her with a pleasant warmth that followed her into her dreams. Dreams of magic and emerald mountains where a honey-voiced angel was singing.


End file.
